


Understory Songs

by EvieSmallwood



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Arranged Marriage, Arranged Marriage, F/M, Gendry is a Baratheon, Tumblr Prompt
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-15
Updated: 2016-11-20
Packaged: 2018-08-22 12:04:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,030
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8285225
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EvieSmallwood/pseuds/EvieSmallwood
Summary: Arya Stark is eight-and-ten years of age; her father has put off the king's demands for far too long. And so, the Bastard Bull comes north, and Arya finds that the thing she most dreaded and hated will become the thing she cannot live without.





	1. Arya I

The rain fell in steadfast drops, slapping against the granite exterior walls in a fashion so intense that it could be heard even within the keep, where she sat before the crackling fire with her hands out to warm them; for they were numb and now flushing with glad blood. She listened intently to the sound, ears perked like that of a wolf’s, and smiled. _Winter is coming_.

The fire was orange, glowing, pulsating against the shadow — fighting an eternal war with darkness; winning and losing alternatively — all in silence. Around the corner the wooden floorboards creaked. Arya turned, instinctively, and saw Father there; one hand was on the pommel of his greatsword Ice, which was so long it nearly brushed the ground. She knew why he did not wear it strapped across his back to-night.

“Love,” he greeted, smiling with more warmth than any flame could hold. “May I sit beside you?”

She wanted and did not want him to for what he was about to force her to endure. On one hand, she knew why he had done it. On another, she could not believe that he could have been so bluntly disregarding toward her true wants. Passively she shifted on the bench and said, “Alright.”

And so he spread his furs wide to accommodate them both. Arya, against her own will, found herself leaning her head on his shoulder. She wanted to ask many questions, all of them on the tip of her tongue and waiting to burst forth like the juice of a ripe fruit, but he spoke first. “I am sorry,” he told her. “I should have consulted you first in a true fashion, rather than corner you as I did.”

Arya knew why he had done it. “You worried I would say no,” she assumed, “so you threw it on me.”

“He is the king’s son, Arya. A prince. I thought you would be happy, but perhaps I underestimated your stubbornness.”

She drew away from him, and felt the sharpness of the cold slap against her cheek in the absence of his bodily heat. “You didn’t just underestimate my stubbornness,” she told him, “it was me you underestimated. Always. My strengths, my weaknesses, my will. Everything. You know me not.”

They were bitter words, which stung them both. Father bowed his head and spoke with true regret, “I know you,” he said to her, though his gaze fell on the floor. “I know you like I know that the snow falls down, and that winter will always come, and that blood is dark and red. I know you like I know every stone in this castle, and yet to I bother to count and touch each one? Nay, I haven’t the time, little wolf. You know that. But I should have done right by you. Listened to your words rather than hear them, no?”

“Yes,” she said. “You should have.”

He looked up at her now, and she saw that he was crying. “I am listening, now.”

But it was too late. Too much time had passed and she had learned long ago to accept the fact that she was not important. Not of any value, not truly. She was merely an object to be sold away to the right bidder, and as soon as he came along, they would not spare her a second thought. And so staying in this life, she had concluded, was far more useless than getting away from it. “I will marry him,” she told her father, “and I will come back each year to see you, storms and snow or not.”

She broke as he held her, and she sobbed into his chest. “I am sorry, my sweet song,” he whispered. Her ear to his heart filled her with a sense of omniscience; it was not dissimilar to a drumbeat, and yet to Arya it felt more like a countdown — a slow and continuous slap to the face which told her that her life as she knew it would end inevitably, and the end was near indeed.

 

A fortnight later, Arya sat wedged between her mother and a young man. The feast hall was bright; lit by dozens of candles which hung form iron candelabras. Wax dripped down but was not yet to the point where it fell on unsuspecting scalps, though they were nearing that point. Arya eyed them anxiously, willing them to just fall.

There was music all around her, somehow a solid and tangible being. It was loud, and merry, and foreboding. Arya hated it. She hated all of it; these people whom she called friends and family had come to celebrate the end of her days. They were glad for her, and smiled when she caught their eye. Arya glared back, with a scowl, no matter whose face she looked upon.

The youth beside her had not said one word aside from a low, “It is a pleasure to meet you, m’lady,” which had been uttered hours ago. She forgot the sound of his voice. She forgot what his face looked like. She would not look upon him.

“Eat, darling,” said mother, patient for once. “You are skin and bone.”

Arya begrudgingly piled more roasted potatoes onto her plate, but did not touch them. As they slapped against the gravy, some splattered on to the doublet of her betrothed. He winced with surprise and stared, dumbfounded. It was then that Arya realised she was well and truly doomed; condemned to marry a lackwit. _Oh Father, how could you?!_

“Sorry,” she said to him, though she was not.

He blinked, and then smiled, brushing the spots away. “It’s fine,” he told her, voice clipped and yet not unkind.

They did not exchange another word for near on an hour. The music changed abruptly, into something more slow. Mother and Father rose quite suddenly from their seats and clasped hands. He led her down to the centre platform, where many others were already dancing together. Even the king grabbed the hand of some serving wench and let her down, bride-less himself given the passing of his wife Cersei.

“We look a bit stupid, sitting here alone, I reckon,” said Lord Baratheon, offering a half-smile.

Arya wanted to badly to roll her eyes. She almost did. “Is that your way of asking me to dance?”

The corner of his mouth, which had been raised, faltered and then fell flat. Somehow Arya felt her own heart sink at the sight; dumb as he clearly was, he did not deserve to have his feelings hurt by someone he had been forced to marry. “I suppose,” he said, with an astonishingly quick recovery.

Arya offered him her hand, and so he took it, and let her down to all of the others. Her mother caught her eye and offered a warm, proud beam. Arya felt sick.

They jostled a bit, and moved slowly, careful not to bump into anyone else and as a result not truly moving at all. He kept stepping on her toes and mumbling apologies, while she bit down on her lip to keep from making exclamations of pain.

Robb must have seen her struggle. He intervened, then, brushing aside Gendry with smooth words. The prince went off to dance with Robb’s wife, Margaery, whom Arya felt incredibly sorry for just then. “Do you like him?” Robb inquired, once they were alone. He led her swiftly.

“No,” Arya stated bluntly. “He’s barely said two words to me, what’s to like?”

“Perhaps he’s shy,” Robb suggested, seemingly amused. “You need not trouble yourself with words, Arya. I was far too flustered to speak with Marge when we first met.”

“Yes, but at least you showed some sign of interest,” Arya protested. “You blushed, you stammered, you held her bloody hand!”

Robb grinned and pulled her a bit closer. “Lower your voice, song,” he said.

Arya huffed. “I don’t want to marry him,” she confessed, resting her cheek against his shoulder. “I don’t want to marry anyone.”

“Father held off the king for a long time, you know,” Robb divulged, much to her surprise. “Robert was constantly inquiring as to your readiness; there were excessive letters and missives and gifts, all of which he hid from you. He let you grow and become, without worry. And now you are eight-and-ten. It is past time.”

Arya met his eyes. Robb’s were blue, like a spring pond, while her own were as grey as slate. “I wasn’t without worry,” she snapped irritably. “It was on my mind constantly. I’ve had nightmares, Robb, about a great lumbering oaf who beats me and screams at me and—”

He was laughing. Heavens, how dare he strike the nerve?! She boxed his ear with pursed lips and scowled. “That’s quite enough.”

“I apologise, my lady,” he said, pink-streaked and tearful.

“You are _not_ ,” Arya told him. “And that’s another thing! He called me ‘m’lady’! Where was he born; Fleabottom?!”

“Perhaps,” Robb said. They danced for another moment, while Arya thought. She knew that Gendry was not a true-born son of Robert Baratheon, but a legitimised bastard. That did not bother her; it had not with Jon and it would not with him. But even so, he had been learned by the finest maesters in the realm, in reading, writing, music, and history — and was a renowned swordsman to boot. From the age of five he had been plucked up from wherever, after the death of Cersei Lannister, and trained until he was fine like supple leather. So why did he talk as though he had just come from some village in the Riverlands?

“Dance with him again, now that your feet are healed,” Robb said, as the song ended. He kissed her brow, and nodded over the young prince.

Arya’s stomach flipped, with fear and rage and nervousness. “I suspect one more dance will do it before the bard’s fingers give out,” Robb told them both. He gratefully took Margaery’s hand and let her over to the benches so that she could rest, being heavy with child.

Gendry took Arya’s hands again. His palms were rather sweaty. “You needn’t worry,” Arya told him, “I don’t bite.”

Gendry swallowed. “I was never good at dancing,” he confessed.

“That much is obvious,” she commented, against her better judgement. He stiffened against her and then relaxed, thank the gods, and so she thought nothing of it.

They did not speak throughout the duration of the song. Arya swiftly dodged his feet with each step, and nearly fell over twice, but he caught her. With the last strum of the song he bent low and kissed her knuckles, at least doing that right. “I thank you for your time, m’lady,” he said.

She nodded, feeling startlingly indifferent, as though this was merely one of Sansa’s many suitors who had come to know her better in the hopes that it might charm her sister. “It was no trouble, my lord,” she said, purposefully separating the two words. Her feet spoke differently.

 

At dawn the next day she walked swiftly through the snow to the godswood. The permafrost beneath her feet cracked pleasantly. It was like music to her. Once within the trees she unfastened the cloak from around her shoulders and bundled it under her arm, hurrying to the heart tree.

Once there she knelt, surveying the dead and frozen understory around her. There was no one. Content, she settled into a position of prayer and closed her eyes, kneeling dutifully there and letting her thoughts — which were a raging storm — slowly uncoil like blackened roots around pale wrists and ankles.

“Are you not cold?”

The voice behind her cased Arya to start. She whirled around, furious, finding Gendry standing not six feet away. “Why are you here?” demanded she, hotly. “You don’t follow the Old Gods.”

“No,” he allowed, “but I _did_ follow you.”

For whatever reason, she found herself laughing. “You’re stupid,” she told him, feeling an odd giddy high settle over her. “Come here.”

He obliged her demand, and sank into the snow without complaint. _At least he follows orders,_ she thought, studying him, now that his eyes were closed. He was rather broad, but lean, also. Well-built, she decided. His jawline was prominent, which Sansa would have said made him handsome, but to Arya it only meant that he was strong — plainly strong. Not a weak-chinned man. And yet his father had been the same in his youth, they said, and look what had happened to him.

One very blue eye cocked open. “You’re watching me,” he told her.

“I’m well aware, thank you,” snapped Arya. “Might as well look at you, being as we’ll be spending our lives together.”

That felt odd to say. She could of quite comprehend it. She didn’t want to. Gendry grinned, for whatever reason. Arya rolled her eyes and bowed her head once again, determined not to carry on talking for once. “Why did you agree?” He asked, suddenly.

Affronted, Arya’s head shot up. She opened her mouth to speak and found that there were no words to come out. With a furrowed brow, she snapped it shut and resolved to merely glare. “You’ve been betrothed to me since I was nine,” she reminded him, after a moment. “I had no choice in the matter.”

That was a lie. Her father had always given her a choice. “I did it for my family,” she decided after a moment.

Gendry nodded. “My father likely would have been greatly offended if you had not accepted,” he told her, for once speaking without pause. “He was already spurned once by your aunt.”

Arya frowned. “Where did you get that idea?!”

With a smirk he turned to her. “I’ve been told a great many things as a result of my time in the Red Keep,” he said. “And most of them were mere falsehoods. But if there is one thing that I believe, it’s that my father deserves no woman. He is a drunkard, a liar, a whore, and he uses women like property. That is not right. I know you can see it, given the way you look at him, and I can see it, too. I am sure your aunt did, as well.”

Arya buried her knees deeper into the snow, so that they were numb. “Did you ever consider the possibility that he only became as such because she spurned him? That he was different before?”

“Of course,” Gendry nodded, “but then, half of the women in the seven kingdoms would beg to differ.”

She found herself smiling. “So you believe that women are not property?”

Betwixt clasped fingers he nodded. “They are people.”

“And yet you’re marrying me, a girl who is being sold to you like some whore, to be wedded and bedded and birth a babe or two when the time is right.”

Gendry turned to her rather abruptly. “What if you never had children?”

“You could try to beat me, but I wouldn’t let you,” she replied with ease.

He nodded. “Just as well,” he said calmly, turning back to the carved weirwood face. “I would not beat you. Ever. And I will not marry you if it is not what you wish. I will pay fares so that you can escape to Essos, and live how you like.”

It was the most romantic thing anyone had ever said to her. Arya felt a sudden lurch within her, as though everything had shifted, as though her axis was turning. It was not quite a warm feeling — it could not be — but it was... It could simply not be described. It was almost like peace, but it was better than that. Almost like happiness, but more calm and somehow gentle. It was almost like wanting someone, and yet there was a contentedness which came along with the knowledge that you did not want to hurt them, or break them, or force them into feeling the same way, and that you would be perfectly happy just so long as they were as well. Like it was perfectly justifiable to lay down your life for their own, so that they could go on living, because that was all that truly mattered.

She did not comprehend any of this in that moment, nor the depth at which the mysterious feeling ran. Nor did it run particularly deep, just then. But it was there, blossoming within her chest at the centre of her heart.

And so naturally, she picked a fight with him. “So you don’t want to marry me, then?!”

“I would be perfectly fine, either way,” he replied swiftly.

“You can go,” she told him, even though she didn’t want him to. “I’ll be fine.”

“You’ll be _cold_ ,” he corrected.

She shot him a sharp look. “I’m a wolf,” she said.

“You’re a girl,” he told her, voice of rationality, “and you’re in nothing but a woollen gown and a shift, so I advise that you return to the warmth of the castle before the tip of your nose falls off.”

She stared at him for a moment longer; at the snow which adorned his hair and eyelashes, and his flushed cheeks. She was not sure if it was the chill or anger which had reddened him, but she found she did not care. “Fine,” she snapped.

He cocked a brow. “‘Fine,’ what?”

Arya shoved him. “Fine, I’ll marry you, you stupid bull!”

 

 


	2. Gendry I

The keep was large, built to accommodate men in the hundreds. It was old, and yet still standing proudly after a thousand years. The ashlar glinted as drops of dew dripped in rippled colours of orange, blue, and silver, adorning icicles that threatened to fall upon unsuspecting heads.

Gendry stared up at them and smiled. Such an unfriendly reminder of his whereabouts was both welcomed and ignored, for it reminded him of the task which lay ahead. And yet who was he to deny the trueborn daughter of Eddard Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North? What could he possibly say to deter his own father?

Nothing. The only thing he was capable of was patience; and the hope that she would come to her senses and accept the offer to flee. He would go with her, if she asked, to protect her... But he would not marry her. No, she did not deserve to be burdened with him for the remainder of her days.

And yet... there was a certain burgeoning, there. A forming friendship — at least to his eyes and ears. And, to his surprise, Gendry found that he did not mind. He would be happy to aid her in fleeing, if she so wished, so long as he might stay with her. Such thoughts were inappropriate, however.

On the seventh day of his visit, he found himself walking. To where, he did not know, nor did he quite understand why. There was a certain restless air about him, which was not unusual, or uncommon, but even so, it seemed to have been exemplified by his nerves and uncertainty — by his storm of thoughts and emotions.

And so he walked, to clear his head, with the hopes that some sort of distraction might be provided. Gendry, to his great pleasure, was not disappointed.

He had not realised that he’d wandered to this part of the keep; the main bedchambers, which were guarded heavily (and yet none of them so much as looked his way, which still took getting used to) and mostly bare. Here, though, there was a crack in a door. Within there was a bright orange glow — most likely a creation of candlelight — and shadows which flirted across, in swift and quick motions.

Gendry edged closer, for he knew that this must be her bedchamber. He had never been curious; better to let people keep to themselves so that he, too, would not be blamed for their mistakes... but with Arya Stark, Gendry could not contain the inquisition.

She held a sword in one hand, short and thin, but beautiful. The metal was castle forged steel, he could tell, adorned with a small, golden pommel which suited her perfectly. There was a look of absolute concentration on her face; pursed lips, a furrowed brow, bright eyes and flushed pink cheeks as she danced across her room in fluid practised motions.

He found himself grinning, like an idiot, and glad for whatever reason. At least he would be accompanied by someone who could take care of herself. At least she was strong, and determined. At least she was defiant, and not complacent, like so many of the other ladies of the court.

He liked someone who bit back a little.

And so Gendry edged away, and left her to her ghosts and demons.

 

The next morning, he stood by the fires of the forge, watching as the mental was folded and hammered, folded and hammered, folded and hammered. It was a mystifying sight, to say the least. When he had been younger, and living on the streets of Flea Bottom, many a time he had perched himself on the little ledge which overlooked the forge. It had always been warm, there, and the air had tasted of metal and smelt of smoke.

Here, the air was so crisp that not even the works made from Mikken could defile it. In fact, it added to the richness of the natural atmosphere. Gendry flexed his hand, anxious that he might be seen — which would be rather unlikely, given the early hour of the morning. He hated having woken the blacksmith, but otherwise he was not sure he would have gone unnoticed.

As it was, Lord Stark’s ward, Theon Greyjoy, who was practising in the yard, sent him several odd looks that Gendry assumed were garnered unseen. Not so, but he did not mind. Gendry was rather used to being looked down upon, despite having proven himself to the people of King’s Landing many times.

He had done all that he could to fit in. Lessons on literature and writing, on various languages that he was still working on mastering. He’d learned to fight, learned to talk properly around the people that mattered, learned to compose himself around watching eyes.

All of that had gone unappreciated, of course. Once a bastard, always a bastard, no matter how highborn the person that gave the decree which proclaimed otherwise.

“When will it be ready?” Gendry inquired.

Mikken shrugged, careless of Gendry’s pedigree, for he was far too focused on his work. “Anywhere from tomorrow to next week. I have a lot more to work on.”

Gendry chewed his cheek. “Would... you mind making this a priority? It is a gift, you see.” He would not bring his blood into this, nor her own. But the urgency remained regardless of who their fathers were.

“Right,” Mikken said. And then he hunched over the in-progress blade and began to warp it some more.

Gendry nodded and left, only to be shocked by the biting cold outside the world of the forge. His hands went numb. Anxiously he worried his fingers as he returned to the guest quarters, where he was housed.

Was it a gift, he wondered, or an asset?

 

Life in Winterfell, after the festivities died down, was rather boring. Gendry spent most of his days huddled up in his rooms or the library, reading books on dragon lore or weaponry. Lord Stark had rather the diverse collection, it seemed.

On the third day in this newfound sanctuary, she disrupted his silence by slamming her hand down on the table in front of him.

“What are you doing?”

His eyes flitted from the book to her face, and he decided they might as well settle on the latter, for she was a much prettier sight than scribbled words. “Reading.” _Admiring you, more like. Your eyes are really very fascinating._

His heart skipped a beat as she leaned forward. “Why didn’t you go on the hunt with my father?”

Gendry scowled. He had turned down the invitation, indeed, as he was wont to do. “I don’t like hunting,” he told Arya. “Just because I came from Robert Baratheon’s seed doesn’t mean I was born with a natural disposition toward—”

“ _Shh_!” snapped she, brows furrowed. “You should have gone. It’s a chance for you to get to know my father.”

“It’s not like I’ll be seeing much of him, anyways.”

_Mistake. Bad. No._

Her cheeks were flushed with red faster than his blink, and she had drawn away. “What is that supposed to mean?”

The hairs on the back of his neck were stood up. “It means, if you marry me, you’ll be living in King’s Landing, which is thousands of leagues from here, and I truly don’t think we’ll be taking three months out of each year just for a visit.” _Why... why do you always have to make things worse? Why? What is wrong with you?_

“Who said I was moving to King’s Landing?” She snapped.

“Well, you’re marrying me, and I am the crown prince, which means my place is in the south.”

“Only so that you’ll be on hand in case your father dies from eating too much boar.”

It had been meant as an insult, he knew, but Gendry laughed anyways. Her mouth twitched, but they both knew that she was still furious at him. “Can’t princes live away from home and then go to their seat when it’s time? I mean, what do you do in the south, anyways?”

“My father is fond of calling girls with illicit intentions to his rooms.”

She pouted. “And you?”

“The habit wasn’t inherited,” Gendry said, growing slightly more confident now that her anger had been slightly ebbed with intrigue. “I read. A lot.”

“Why?”

“I don’t want people thinking I’m... stupid. Bullish is fine, I suppose.”

Arya blushed. “I’m not living in the south,” she said. “When wolves go south, they die.”

Gendry rolled his eyes, remembering their conversation in the woods. “But you wouldn’t be a wolf, anyways, Arya. You’d be a stag.”

Her eyes widened. “No,” she said, rather firmly. “I’ll always be a wolf, Gendry.”

He sighed. “What animal you are doesn’t matter,” he said. “If you’re a wolf, and I’m a bull, and my father is a brute, then that’s that, in your eyes. You won’t be around your... pack, and you... you’ll be alone, Arya. Are you sure that you want this?”

“I’m alone, either way, Gendry,” she whispered, head down now as she traced patterns on the table with a short, pale finger. “Having a pack doesn’t make you any more included in anything. It’s just a stupid title. A facade. I love my family, and I always will, and I know that they love me... but I also know that it’s possible to love someone and still not... not like them.”

Gendry frowned. And then, on an impulse of sorts, he reached out and took her hand. It was sculpted of ice. “I like you,” he said, to his own fury. “I may not know you very well, but from what I’ve seen, and what you’ve told me, you seem... Better than I expected you to be.”

She pursed her lips, eyes on their intertwined fingers. “And how did you expect me to be?”

“Well, like every other girl I’ve met; flighty, and thin, and pretty.”

She scoffed and withdrew. “So I’m not pretty?!”

Gendry leaned back. “No.”

With narrowed eyes, she asked, “Am I ugly?”

“No,” he said. “Honestly I didn’t think you cared very much what I thought of you. I didn’t think it mattered to you what you look like.”

“It doesn’t, with other people!” She then let out something akin to a growl at the sight of his wide grin. “I just mean, I’m meant to be marrying you. It matters a bit.”

“Well, I’ll tell you what I think of you when we’re married, then.”

She twitched almost imperceptibly. “I think you’re dumb, Gendry Baratheon. And arrogant. And entitled, and rude, and brutish like your father. No doubt within a few years you’ll be gone to seed and wine and whores, just like him.”

Gendry’s grin visibly fell. “Well, that’s your opinion.”

“Yes, it is.”

“And why voice it now?”

“You called me plain!”

“I did not!”

“What’s not pretty but not ugly?”

Gendry huffed. “Someone beautiful, obviously.” Her eyes widened, and he stood, exasperated. “And now you’ve ruined the suspense. Taken away any possibility of a grand proclamation of romance. Well done, m’lady.”

“ARGH!”

They stared at one another, he nearest to the door and her now on her feet, having shot out of her chair, both angered beyond belief for whatever reason. He wasn’t quite sure why, on his part. Nor her own. “Why are you the way you are?!” She demanded.

He looked away, face hot. “Neglect?”

At that, she frowned, clearly confused. “What... What do you mean by that?”

“Well, m’lady, I’ve discovered that it’s quite common for a father to appreciate his son — or the fact that he exists, more like — but still not like him. Or love him. Even remotely.”

“He doesn’t...?”

“He doesn’t even look at me, unless he has to.” He felt suddenly very raw, just then; as though he had been stripped to his truest colours and she was examining each one with increasing interest. “But you don’t know what that’s like, do you?”

She swallowed. “No,” she said. “I’m sorry—”

“It’s fine.” He smiled in a way that hurt. “The practise will end with him, if that’s what your worried about. Any sons of ours will be acknowledged and loved completely.”

He turned to leave, but she stopped him with a voice that was so small. “And liked? Will they be liked?”

He rested his forehead against the wood for it was cool, in contrast to this stifling, stifling room. “Yes.”

“What about daughters?”

“Them, too.”

“And what if I don’t want to have any children?”

“Then we’ll adopt dogs and love and like them, Arya.”

She was smiling, and he could feel it. “Alright.”


End file.
